


you'll know me at once

by ScreechTheMighty



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (and during), Brainwashing, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recurring Dreams, Steve is also in this but not really, Torture, not super graphic but still tagging it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6952390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScreechTheMighty/pseuds/ScreechTheMighty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They try to make him forget, but it keeps coming back to him. That voice. Those eyes.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>It's me. It's Steve.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	you'll know me at once

It starts like this.

Italy. November 1943. Thirty miles behind enemy lines. Held captive by HYDRA. These are the details he’ll forget first. Where and when are irrelevant. So is why.

The _who_ that shows up one night. That’s what's important.

+++++

He loses track of time quickly down here, wherever _here_ is. All he knows is it’s cold and damp and dark, most of the time. When they’re not beating him, injecting him with God knows what, and trying everything they can to break him, they leave him alone. He tries to sleep when they do. They don't usually let him sleep. He has to keep his strength up if he’s going to get out of here.

He sleeps, until…

“Bucky!”

He hears the rattling of the door being opened, feels hands on his shoulders. “Oh my god…” When he opens his eyes, they meet a familiar face, blue eyes looking him over with concern, and that _stupid_ helmet with the big old A on it. “It’s me. It’s Steve.”

“… _Steve…_ ”

The figure helps him up. He’s really the only thing _keeping_ him upright; one hand gripping his upper arm, the other cradling the back of his head. Eyes still filled with concern and relief. “I thought you were dead.”

That’s as far as it goes.

He never gets to reply, never gets to say _I’m still alive_ or _I knew you’d come for me_ or _what the fuck are you doing here, you idiot?_ He always wakes up. Or they wake him up, with kicks or a sudden deluge of cold water or electric shocks. The dream always ends.

He starts praying that he’ll have that dream again. Just so he can see those eyes. Just so he can think, even for a second, that he’s being rescued.

+++++

They move him. They strap a new arm to his body. They keep him sedated, send electricity through his brain, ask him questions. If he answers wrong, they hurt him.

_Who are you?_

_Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107 th…_

They hurt him a lot.

In between sessions, they stuff him in a metal coffin and freeze him. It’s nothing like falling asleep. He stays awake for what feels like a long time, trapped in a body that won't respond to him. He does pass out, eventually, when his mind grows too tired to stay awake.

And sometimes…

“Bucky!”

He hears his name called, distantly, feels warm air caress his face as the door to his prison is yanked open. Arms drag him out. “Oh my god…it’s me. It’s Steve.”

He’s held against someone’s chest in a vain attempt to warm him up. Sometimes a coat is draped over his shoulders. Every time, blue eyes stare at him, worried and relieved.

“…Steve…” As if it could be anyone else. As if anyone else would be stupid enough to come back for him.

“I thought you were dead.”

He wants to reply, but he never gets the chance. They dig him back up and drag him back out before he can. He always lands back in the chair with a name on his lips, mumbled in a half-asleep stupor: “Steve. _Steve._ ”

They fry his brain until he stops saying it.

+++++

They put him on ice in between missions.

He’s used to it; he expects it, the same way he expects the shocks when he wakes up and the words whispered when they’re done. It’s all he knows. The coffin. The chair. His handler. The mission.

And this:

The voice is familiar, but only just barely. He can’t hear what’s being said. He feels hands pull him free, but they don’t take him to the chair. They hold him upright. Cradle the back of his head. He knows those hands. He knows that voice.

He knows those blue eyes.

“I thought you were dead.”

They wake him up. They wipe him. They send him on another mission. He forgets, until he sleeps again. Until he sees those eyes again.

_I thought you were dead._

+++++

Years pass.

Handlers change, but not much else does.

The coffin (it’s a different shape, a glass tube and not a metal box, but it serves a same function). The chair (they’ve found new ways to wipe him, more controlled, less chance of accidentally killing him). The mission (he shoots and stabs, extracts information and assets, breaks bones, comes back to them covered in blood, and is told that he’s doing it for the betterment of humanity).

And this.

Hands. A voice, muffled and wordless. Those eyes. The voice is only faintly familiar, its words lost on him. But he knows those eyes.

They wake him up.

He forgets.

+++++

It starts like this.

A hand grasps the mask covering the lower half of his face, tosses him, rips it off in the process. He rolls, stands, turns. The target, who had been putting up a fight until then, freezes. His eyes narrow, squinting against the sun, or perhaps in disbelief.

“…Bucky?”

The word echoes in his head like a gunshot. He realizes something: he knows those eyes. He can’t put his finger on how. But he knows those eyes.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

The question slips out before he can stop it (but it’s an honest one—who the _hell_ is _Bucky?_ ). He has to finish the mission. He raises his gun. He’s struck from behind. He falls. Gets up.

He _knows those eyes._

His next attempt to finish the mission is cut off by the grenade flying dangerously close to him. The other operatives are moving into place. He can’t do it now. He knows those eyes. He runs. He tries to forget.

He can’t.

Because when he closes his eyes, he sees that stare; he feels hands holding him up; he hears that voice. _Bucky. Bucky. Bucky?_

He remembers.

_It’s me. It’s me. It’s me._

The memory rattles in his head, like marbles in a glass jar. He knows those eyes and he knows that voice. He asks who the man is ( _it’s me_ ). He knows they’re lying when they say he met him earlier in the week.

“I knew him.”

 _Bucky?_ _Oh my god…_

"I  _knew him_ ," he says, and he knows that this is true.

He hears them say it: _wipe him and start over._ He saw that was coming. He’s never been out this long. He can feel himself unraveling with every second he’s awake. He knows those eyes. He knows that voice.

_It’s me._

They wipe him. He can feel his mind sinking back into the cold; he can hear that voice growing more and more distant. He holds onto it for as long as he can. That voice. Those eyes.

_I thought you were dead._

He forgets.

(Or he doesn’t.)

(Maybe he never had.)  

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, one day I thought "Wow, wouldn't it be sad/fucked up if Bucky kept dreaming about when Steve rescued him from HYDRA the first time? If he kept waiting and waiting for his friend to save him, even if it was subconsciously? If he ever wakes up sometimes and Steve is there and he thinks he's still dreaming? That'd be really sad, wouldn't it?" 
> 
> So, I decided to make everyone suffer with me. Because I'm a bad person.
> 
> Title from "Once Upon a Dream", because I'm also a lazy person who can't think of a more clever title. It's like three in the morning. Sue me.


End file.
